


you remind me of maybe

by nolangerardfuck



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Prison, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 00:56:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3831184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nolangerardfuck/pseuds/nolangerardfuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three types of love Sergio Ramos experiences, from high school, to prison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i thought of waiting to write all 3 parts and just post it as 1 part, but i thought it'd work better like this. still working through the next two. this probably needs more editing, but.

**_storge. an affectionate love that slowly develops from friendship._ **

 

Synthetic grass scratches Sergio’s bare feet as he walks along the edge of the Oval, scanning the hill for a spot of shade. There’s space at the far end, away from the chattering students. He hums a flamenco song under his breath as he walks towards it.

 

Eyes drift towards him, naturally, and Sergio notices the sudden hushed chatter. Nothing out of the ordinary. He gets the same reaction each time he visits the school. Maybe they’re bred into it, programmed to think the same _, say the same_ —

 

Tangled ponytail at the nape of his neck— _looks_ _dirty, doesn’t he shower?_

Stained shirt hanging loose off his frame— _how much do you think he paid for that at the thrift store? A dollar?_

 

Jeans with scuffs and tears all along— _he smells like a giant urine stain._

Sergio smiles, doesn’t look at them. Their faces blur together, a crowd with matching masks, voices in sync, all together now— _you don’t belong here._

 

Each private school kid sitting with a mask obscuring their face, placed there upon birth by relentless parents reeking of privilege and carelessness. The kids never learn that they can reach up—grab the mask, crush it in their grasp. Maybe they think—think that if they remove their mask, their skin will tear off along with it. Maybe they are their masks. The parents were once the children, after all.

 

Sergio lies back in the small patch of shade, humming, waiting.

 

“What’d you do to your shoes?”

 

Iker’s has the same gruff displeasure in his voice he seems to have whenever he speaks to Sergio lately— _lately,_ the last year. Sergio wonders when it changed.

 

Nowadays, Sergio looks at him and sees a single crimson rose in the middle of a glass box, a glass box that doesn’t shatter no matter how hard blows land on it and— the rose gradually wilts within its glass box, and Sergio can do nothing but watch.

 

Sergio remembers the exact moment Iker started stitching the mask onto his face, sewing the seams into his own skin. Last year, Iker’s mother remarried rich and moved to the Northern Beaches, sent her son to a private school, and Sergio was happy for him, he was, but—the Iker who grew up with Sergio in Blacktown slowly disappeared under a veneer. It’s easier to pretend he doesn’t notice the judgement that burns in Iker’s eyes when he looks at Sergio. When was the last time he saw Iker’s eyes wrinkled with laugh lines?

 

“I don’t have any shoes.”

 

“I bought you a pair last week.”

 

“Lost them.”

 

Sergio is still looking up at the trees as he speaks, but he hears Iker sit beside him, and he can picture his expression. Shaggy eyebrows furrowing, lips pressed into a thin line. Sergio looks up—and yes, he’s right. He snorts and closes his eyes.

 

“It’s not funny. I know you keep letting people mug you—“

 

“I don’t _let_ anyone mug me, it just happens. I live in Blacktown. Anyway, I don’t force you to spend money on me.”

 

Sergio thinks, they used to understand each other better than this. Most days they would hide out in the library during lunchtime and make bets on who would get caught with weed or coke in school today. Late at night they’d meet at the park, with nothing but a football and $15 boots from Kmart—playing until early in the morning. Sergio remembers, but he wonders if Iker still does.

 

“I just wish you would put more effort in—“

 

“Put more effort into what? Dressing like I have money I don’t?”

 

Sergio looks over at Iker, raising a single eyebrow. Iker just shakes his head and looks back to the field, where the rest of his team is gesturing to him. Break time is over, apparently. Back to being the captain of the football team, mister perfect.

 

“Do you want me to wait while your practice finishes?”

 

Immediately after he asks, Sergio regrets it. He regrets coming to see Iker, catching the inconvenient amount of buses from Blacktown just to meet a stranger. Somehow, it’s funny, because once upon a time he did anything to be close to Iker. His other half, all that. It’s funny, because he remembers a time where they could’ve been so much more than they are, and maybe—but not anymore.

 

“I think you should go.”

 

Iker’s already getting up, and Sergio pretends he never expected anything else.

 

Years later when Iker is on television as Real Madrid’s captain, Sergio swallows, and it tastes bitter, like stomach acid. He looks at Iker and sees the passion that used to be there in the park at midnight, nothing but a football and $15 boots from Kmart.

 

He looks at Iker, and sees what could’ve been, a question mark, and shuts off the television.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the ending might be a big choppy. i kind of stalled? this is an experiment, anyway.

_mania. obsessive love._

At the age of twenty, Sergio meets Fernando Torres. He walks into the car repair workshop Sergio works at one afternoon, and—shaved head and freckles and tattoos. Piercing smile, edges sharp like a razorblade. Sergio tries to catch himself, but it’s too late. Sergio works on his Ferrari (he’s the kind of guy who drives a Ferrari in Blacktown, of course) and three days later, Fernando fucks him in it.

 

Day after day after day—it becomes regular. Fernando picks him up from the workshop, and Sergio ignores his boss’ disapproving stare. The usual “what’s up, gypsy?” Sergio usually frowns at the nickname, but when it’s Fernando, he doesn’t protest. He makes a lot of exceptions for Fernando.

 

When he drives, Fernando presses his foot on the accelerator for the whole ride. It makes Sergio’s stomach churn, but he stays silent, gripping the seat until his knuckles are white. Punk music always blasts from the stereos. Fernando grips the steering wheel with one hand, smoking cigarette after cigarette with the other, throwing a grin at Sergio every time he catches younger man staring—at his tattoos, the smattering of freckles across his whole body, the burning blaze in his eyes. Speeding down the highway at four AM, one hand on the steering wheel, Fernando flicks his cigarette out of the window. Places his hand on Sergio’s crotch, undoes his belt. Sergio doesn’t protest. Fernando grins. And around they go.

 

Sergio can always find three things in Fernando’s car—condoms, a novel (sometimes Vonnegut, other times anarchist literature of some sort or another), and a pack of smokes. One night he’s searching the backseat of the car for smokes, waiting for Fernando to hurry up in the liquor store, and— at first, he doesn’t realise they’re drugs. Only for a few seconds. He stares at the white powder in the large bag under the passenger seat. He swallows, frozen. A hand lands on his back.

 

“There’s nothing there.” Fernando pulls Sergio back, closing the door and pinning him to the door. The usual grin is gone from his face—he looks sharp, devastating. Sergio holds his breath.

 

“Do you get me? You didn’t fucking see nothing.” Fernando reaches up and pulls Sergio’s hair, slamming his head into the door. Sergio gasps in pain, shutting his eyes. His teeth dig into his lip.

 

“Open your fucking eyes and look at me.”

 

“Fernando, fuck, please—“

 

Fernando lets go of his hair, and Sergio’s eyes open. People around them pause and look, but only momentarily. It’s Blacktown, after all. The back of Sergio’s head feels wet, and a drop of blood slides down his lip where he was biting it. He can’t avoid Fernando’s eyes, he tries, but. Sergio’s breath just won’t even out, his chest feels too tight—Fernando’s eyes are always burning. He drops his hand down to Sergio’s cheek, his chin, wipes the streak of blood away. Sergio thinks his breath will leave him all together if he looks away from Fernando’s eyes.

 

“I love you. You don’t love anyone like you love me. Look at me, huh. Be a good boy. Come on.”

 

And Sergio—he was always going to get swept up in Fernando’s kiss. Fernando bites his tongue and blood drips down his chin. When he pulls away he gasps for breath and his eyes are blown wide, staring at the man in front of him. For a second Fernando’s face is blank, his eyes dark and hollow. For a second. But it passes, and he’s grinning again, letting out that vain laugh and cracking a joke about the checkout boy staring at his biceps. Sergio reaches up and rubs at the bleeding spot at the back of his head. He pretends he didn’t see that second of emptiness in Fernando’s eyes.

 

It’s like watching time go by in a fast-forward. Every touch and whisper and look melds together so it feels like _iloveyouiloveyouidonteverwanttostoptouchingyoutouchmeloveme_ and Sergio is—breathless.

 

That night he thought he was picking Fernando up. He’d mentioned it earlier in bed, casually; can you pick me up from the city tonight? I’ll lend you my car. Sergio didn’t even question it. Fernando’s hand trailed down Sergio’s bare back, up and down softly. Yeah, sure. And that was that.

 

It doesn’t hit him until he’s sitting in his car with the sound of sirens quickly approaching. Fernando’s there, leaving a large bag in the back and taking another one out. Sergio’s about to speak, about to—but when he turns around Fernando’s gone, but the police aren’t, and. He vaguely realises another car just pulled up beside him, and Fernando gets in. Sergio sits there, breathing in gasps, not knowing what happened, what is happening. He can’t move or put his foot on the gas, his muscles rioting against him.

 

Panic consumes him. He should’ve always known it would come to this. Later, he’ll be embarrassed. The police will tell him that he’s being charged with robbing a jewellery store just around the corner; the bag in the back is full of stolen goods, thousands of dollars. Fernando robbed the store, swapped the goods out for the packaged white powder, left Sergio with no proof, no—nothing. Over in seconds. _Fernando? He? Is this? Just like this? Why?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tell me what u think!! if u want to discuss characterisation or anything u can drop an ask at popehoney.tumblr.com (shameless self-pimping) anyway hope u enjoyed it?


End file.
